


Strong, Faithful

by spycandy



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: All4One Big Bang 2014, Bodyguards as family, Brief mention of miscarriage, Community: all4onebigbang, Gen, It's tough to be king, Lots of Musketeers, literal cliffhanger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2343596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/spycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strong, faithful: it is the Treville family motto and Louis has been glad of it ever since he was a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When thy king is a child

The guardsman found the young dauphin - no, the king, the child was king now - in a rarely-used corridor of the palace. He was sitting on the cold marble floor, underneath a finely inlaid wooden side table, with his knees tucked up to his chin and he was staring at the empty space in front of him, most likely trying very hard not to cry.

“Your Majesty…” began the guardsman, careful to use the correct title. The very idea of speaking to royalty was still new to him. In the few weeks that he had spent in the palace so far, he had rarely been called on for anything more than a “Yes, Your Highness”.

Seeing the child’s lip wobble at his words gave him pause, however. It didn’t seem fair that the only correct way to address the miserable-looking little boy in front of him was to remind him of the very great weight that had just descended on his small shoulders. Surely it would be kinder to call him Louis and lead him by the hand down to the kitchens for a glass of milk and a comforting plate of sweetmeats.

“Did Mother send you?” asked the boy. “Is she cross with me for leaving? There were too many people there.”

The queen had not sent him. She and all of her late husband’s ministers had withdrawn into private conference and while there was no doubt that Louis-the-new-king was foremost in their discussions at that moment, Louis the boy had been temporarily forgotten. It wouldn’t do to tell him that though. 

In fact, the guardsman hadn’t even been looking for the child and he feared that he should not have spoken to him at all under the proper rules of royal protocol, without being spoken to first. Nevertheless, he could hardly leave him alone, curled as he was on the hard floor. 

“No one is cross with you, Your Majesty,” he said as gently as he knew how. Talking to upset children was almost as unfamiliar as talking to kings. “Would you perhaps like to rest in your own rooms for now, so that the queen can find you when you are needed?”

The boy didn’t move, but did at least look at him for the first time and seemed puzzled to find an unfamiliar face. “What’s your name, guardsman? You’re new in the palace, aren’t you?”

“My name is Treville,” said the guardsman. “My regiment is newly posted to Paris for guard duty. We were patrolling the Spanish border until two months ago, Your Majesty.”

“I don’t want that,” snapped the boy. “ _Your Majesty_.”

There must have been people lining up across Europe right at that moment who _did_ want it, but the crown of France wasn’t something you could refuse, any more than a soldier could insist upon his preference for fresh mountain air and the chance to fight Spaniards face to face rather than patrolling stuffy palace corridors in Paris and being outwitted by assassins. Even though Treville hadn’t personally been present in the Rue de la Ferronnerie it was hard not to feel some share in the regiment’s horrifying failure to protect King Henry. 

The boy saw Treville floundering for something to say and sighed.

“I know. It is the task set for me by God and I am willing to do my duty and serve France. But only, why must it be _now_?” On the last word, he finally surrendered his battle with tears. “I just want my Papa back.”

While he would later wonder at his boldness, Treville didn’t hesitate to do what he would have done for any sobbing child and kneeling down, he reached an arm around the new king’s small shoulders. The boy himself did hesitate, glancing both ways along the corridor before allowing the embrace, but once he did so, he clung to Treville’s well-worn leather jacket and for several moments just shook silently in the guardsman’s arms.

Making the king cry seemed like the kind of thing his superior officers would probably frown on. However, to lose a parent so suddenly and violently would be hard on any child, and it was likely that Louis would find few other chances to give way to his grief in the coming days. 

“There, there,” said Treville. He offered the only comfort he could think of. “It won’t all fall on you. The Queen and all of your father’s ministers and servants will do their best to help you.”

In all honesty, he wasn’t certain whether Queen Marie, who would surely be appointed regent for the time being, was going to make the best choices for France, going by the gossip from his commanders, but she would surely do her best by her son.

Louis at last collected himself somewhat and pulled away from Treville’s shoulder, sniffing loudly. He appeared to be searching his outfit for a flounce or cuff on which to wipe his eyes and nose. Unfortunately, a guardsman’s kit did not contain a handkerchief, but Treville tugged off his frayed blue neckcloth, a gift from his own mother that he would be loathe to part with under any other circumstances, and held it out.

The king gave this offering a dubious glance, then opted for his own perfectly pressed white sleeve instead.

“You must not tell anyone what I said. It was but a moment’s weakness… I will not falter in serving France with all my heart,” he said, standing up and pulling himself up into what he obviously thought was a more regal posture, though the puffed chest made him look rather like a strutting pigeon. Nevertheless, Treville thought the sniffled declaration was about the bravest thing he had ever heard a man utter.

“My lips are sealed on everything that has passed in this corridor, Your Majesty,” he said, noting with a flash of pride that the little king barely flinched at the correct style this time. 

Now that the boy was standing, Treville dropped back to one knee, bringing their eyes almost level. “And I do swear to serve you, my king, to guard you and protect you with my life for as long as there is breath in my body,” he said, with absolute sincerity.

“Well of course you do,” said the boy, the king, Louis. But there was a hint of a watery smile that belied the arrogance of his words. “And thank you Treville. I will remember this.”


	2. To bring out the prisoners from the prison

The daylight still seemed far too bright and Treville was forced to squint as he was led through the palace gardens. Nevertheless, the neatly clipped hedges and parading peacocks were a pleasant sight and felt more comfortingly familiar than his regiment’s short spell as palace guardsmen seven years earlier really merited.

He could have wished that they had all been given an opportunity to wash and change before this interview, but apparently the king wanted to see them right away. It didn’t seem right to stand before royalty without scrubbing up to your very best, let alone without at least washing off the prison filth. But then, it was royalty that had put him in there in the first place.

The young man who strutted towards them, flanked by four burly guardsmen in cumbersome decorative parade armour, was still small for his age and the heeled shoes he wore did nothing to conceal that fact. He was dressed in a fine jacket of gold brocade, which shone spectacularly in the sunshine, but his bearing still reminded Treville somewhat of a pigeon.

Even so, he did have a certain _presence_. It wasn’t just a well-honed sense of self-preservation that prompted Treville to drop to his knees as the king reached them. The youngster’s eyes commanded it. The rest of the small group of ill-kempt prisoners either caught that look as well, or they followed Treville’s lead, dropping to the ground in front of their king.

“Gentlemen,” said Louis, and Treville winced inwardly at the way the young king’s voice fractured on the third syllable, suddenly fluting high and boyish, just as he was most in need of gravitas. He feared it would push one of his companions over the edge into nervous laughter, but there was too much on the line here and everyone maintained an admirable grip on their shaky composure.

Louis pressed on. “As you will see, Marie de Medici is no longer queen regent of France. We are taking control of our own realm and in pursuit of that there are many things that must be put right. We have examined the circumstances of your imprisonment and believe my mo… the former queen acted wrongly.”

Freedom, thought Treville, it truly was to be freedom then. But even as his heart rose at the confirmation of his hopes, it ached for the way in which the young king’s wavering voice had turned stone cold when he spoke of his mother.

Not that he didn’t have good reason for that fury. Treville had managed to follow current events to some extent after being imprisoned while the country rocked on the brink of an all-out civil war and it was clear that Marie de Medici had only become even more treacherous and self-interested in recent months.

Prison had been grim and difficult, but it was always a comfort to know that his honour was intact even if the queen was able to ruin his reputation. He knew in his own heart that he had never acted against the interests of King Louis or of France.

The king cleared his throat to continue and his face relaxed, suggesting that he was going to enjoy announcing the next bit. But at the same moment Treville saw a glint in the nearby treeline, followed by the too-familiar scrape of metal on metal. Even with his senses almost overwhelmed by the unaccustomed outdoors he knew what those things meant. He lunged towards the king, only realising as he did so how that action might be misconstrued.

“There’s an armed man in the trees,” he shouted, hoping desperately that the men who were actually supposed to be on protection duty would understand and wouldn’t shoot him instead. “Protect the king!”

The prisoners, who were all military men of one kind or another, knew what to do better than the guards themselves, it seemed, and they quickly formed a tight circle of bodies shielding the king from any possible shots - from either the direction of the trees or elsewhere, since there might well be another hidden assassin ready to take advantage of the confusion.

Crashing and shouting erupted from the trees a few moments later and before long the guards dragged an unconscious man wearing black leather onto the gravel path where the prisoners had been standing and dropped him there.

“I think you can let go of me now,” mumbled the king, pressed against Treville’s chest.

He realised he still had his arms wrapped around the young man. So much for freedom - he would probably be sent straight back to prison now for assaulting the person and dignity of the king. He let go and backed away with his eyes lowered.

“Well gentlemen,” said the king tugging sharply on the bottom of his jacket in order to straighten out the fine silk fabric where Treville had rumpled it. “If ever a course of action was quickly proven correct, it must be your release. We thank you for your protection.” 

“You are dismissed,” he added, then turned to Treville. “Except for you. We would speak with you alone.”

He watched his fellow former prisoners depart without him, feeling no particular pang at their separation after so long in close quarters. They were good enough fellows, loyal Frenchmen and he would be glad to fight alongside any one of them again should the need arise. But he hadn’t made lifelong friendships in prison and had no great desire to join them in toasting freedom in whichever tavern they chose to head for.

“It’s Treville, isn’t it?”

Treville didn’t know whether the king had identified him from the papers detailing the prisoners of his mother’s increasingly mercurial reign or whether he had dredged the name from the memory of their one and only previous conversation. He doubted that the incident had been as memorable for the little boy as it had been for a soldier meeting his king. He had probably been forgotten as just one of many guardsmen who had cluttered the palace in the midst of a confusing and difficult time for the royal family.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you again for your courage and sharp eyes. But how did you even know that the man was there?”

The question was such a sudden switch from the formal speechifying to boyish curiosity that Treville found himself smiling as he explained about the out-of-place sound of a musket being loaded. Louis nodded, looking interested.

“To be honest, I’m surprised your guards missed it. It’s exactly the kind of thing we trained to listen out for in the field, Your Majesty.”

“Well, they’re highly trained swordsmen, not ordinary soldiers. Luynes says they wouldn’t allow an assassin to get anywhere close to me.” Louis sighed. “But I suppose they don’t really need to get close to inflict a fatal blow. How accurate are these long-barrelled weapons now?”

“I’m afraid I’m not entirely up to date, Your Majesty, but before I was imprisoned, the rate of improvement in musketry was remarkable. I’d warrant that a good marksman would pose the greatest threat to your safety nowadays.”

“Walk with us, Treville,” said Louis, turning to stride away from the unconscious black clad assassin and signalling to the retinue of guards and servants standing at a short distance to deal with him. “We would be interested to hear your ideas on how we should best protect ourselves and our household.”

“You might start with the landscaping of the palace gardens. Those trees provide entirely too much cover…”


	3. Be strong and of a good courage

“Gunpowder? Muskets? Good God!”

How on earth had he allowed himself to be lulled into such a false sense of security? For years now Louis had believed without question in Treville’s ability to keep him safe. Riding through the jostling Paris crowds, greeting the city’s unwashed population, mingling close enough to smell them, he had always had absolute confidence that he would come to no harm.

But he had trusted the musketeers to take care of his queen and she had returned from the prison to the palace dirt-smeared and shaken. And if they could allow danger to tread so close to Anne...

“The threat to Your Majesty’s life is real and immediate,” said the blue-cloaked musketeer standing to Treville’s left.

“It would be madness to attend the Easter Mass,” added Richelieu.

“Decoys will go in Your Majesties’ place,” said Treville, as if this was already a settled thing. “We will lure Vadim from hiding with a false target.”

Well that just wasn’t fair, thought Louis crossly. Why should _he_ miss out on the Easter festivities and the admiring crowds, all because of some preposterous plot. Surely the whole point of having his musketeers was to ensure that royal occasions could go ahead in safety. And the whole point of royal occasions was that he should be able to attend them.

“You’re going to let the attempt go ahead?” he asked.

“We’ll catch the conspirators in the act of sedition. Hopefully without a shot being fired.”

They sounded so certain, and the way they had presented this whole plan as a fait accompli only irked him more. But if both Treville and Richelieu thought it best, then perhaps he would look foolish and childish to oppose them.

“The people know their king and queen too well,” said Anne, the force of her soft voice surprising him in this council of men. Was she really on his side in this? “It seems to me, Captain, that your plot will fail without the king’s authentic presence. Your men have protected me once, I am sure they will do so again. The king and I shall attend mass as planned.”

His heart swelled a little at her brave small smile and, indeed, at the discomfitted looks upon the faces of his annoying would-be protectors in response to her declaration.

“My father never shirked public obligation, no matter what the threat to his person,” he added, lest his queen gain all the credit for courage. But she was right, the musketeers _had_ protected her at the prison. Other than a little dust and a fit of womannish nerves she hadn’t really come to any actual harm after all. He had been wrong to doubt them earlier.

“Your father was assassinated.” Good God, did the cardinal really think he had forgotten about that? “It’s simply a matter of common sense to stay away.”

“Common sense is for commoners, not for kings,” said Louis, bolstered in confidence by the small approving smile he caught from Treville. The captain was a soldier, of course he would value daring over caution in his monarch. “I will not have it said that the son of Henry the Fourth is a coward. It is my task to show courage and leadership. It’s yours to protect me.”

**

Notre Dame was even more beautiful than usual, with its altars and bishops all decked out in white and gold Eastertide finery. Not to be outshone, the king and queen were likewise dressed to match the ecclesiastical season of resurrection and joy.

As he knelt to prayer, Louis’s thoughts kept harping on how dramatically their splendid wardrobe would highlight the crimson blood after they were both shot dead by the conspirators. No doubt artists would paint vivid versions of the scene for centuries.

He shuddered. Was it cowardice or vanity that directed his thoughts in such an absurd direction, he wondered. Surely Treville and his men would despise him if they knew how afraid he was.

With the service over, the royal party and its honour guard gathered by the door. He could hear the crowds cheering already. 

“Your Majesty.”

“Captain.”

“Are you ready?”

He took a deep breath and prepared his most dazzling smile. No one who painted this tragic scene in the years to come should ever be able to depict a king who was afraid. It was a helpful thought. He wondered whether he should share it with Anne, who looked entirely too poised and ready until he saw her fingers nervously flicking the stiff lace sleeves of her shimmering golden dress. 

The door opened and they strode out to meet the people.

“Death to tyrants!”

Well that was entirely unfair, thought Louis. He ought to remonstrate with these foolish revolutionaries, make them see that he was actually doing the very best he could to be a fair and just king for everyone and that hardly constituted tyranny. On the other hand, there were suddenly a lot of guns and a great deal of shouting and screaming. And a large musketeer was practically manhandling him into cover.

“Protect the king! Protect the king!”

For the next few moments there was noise and chaos. Gunfire crackling and echoing down the streets. Cries of _“Down!”_ And “Watch out!” The musketeer who had a firm grip on his shoulder pointed towards the royal carriage, and they started a crouched run towards it. It was only halfway to safety that he realised Anne was not with them.

He hesitated and glanced back towards the fighting, which was rapidly following them up the side street.

“The others will have the queen,” said his protector. “Quickly, to the carriage, Your Majesty.”

He obeyed, relieved to let the soldier make the decision for him. A moment later he heard screams of _“Shoot him!”_ and then _“Bomb! Bomb! Clear the area!”_ Oh God, he had run away and abandoned his queen to die. It had been reckless madness to attend the mass when they knew of the conspirators’ plans. The people would never forgive him.

But there was no explosion. And only moments later, Anne was bundled into the carriage alongside him. Outside Treville was brandishing a pistol and staring around frantically. The carriage set off, leaving the chaos in its wake.

Anne was safe at his side as they rumbled through the city. She was unharmed. But he would always be the reason she was in danger. And he could never be her heroic rescuer.


	4. For I desired mercy, and not sacrifice

He had been looking forward to this hunting trip for weeks, but now that it had arrived it was turning out to be a grave disappointment.

Even with the inclement weather, it would have been fine if the party trekking through the muddy landscape had consisted of just himself, some hand-picked courtiers, Treville and his musketeers. The captain was not much of a conversationalist but at least he could be relied upon to neither fawn over his king nor to make embarrassingly inept attempts at manipulation and heavy-handed intriguing.

“Mix a little business with pleasure,” the cardinal had suggested, pressing the idea of taking the two visiting ambassadors along to experience the varied pleasures of both the French countryside and the sport of kings. But since ambassador Gabrieli was a frivolous fool and ambassador Avellino was a tremendous bore, it had so far turned out to be a lot more like mixing effort with misery. In addition to which, when they weren’t between them exasperating Louis, they irritated each other so much that he had started to fear the hunting party would actually precipitate an outbreak of war between the two Italian Dukedoms they represented.

So all in all, by now he was sorely tempted to push one or other of them off this path and into the roaring river at the bottom of the gorge below.

The path, in fact, was another sore point. Much to Louis’ embarrassment, after having boasted of the great improvements to the roads in this region, it had turned out that the bridge they had intended to take had been washed away by floods caused by the heavy rains. Having heard so much about the beautiful views to be seen from the vantage point at the other end of the gorge however, the ambassadors had politely begged that the party should instead take the narrow footpath that ran above the river. So they had left their horses with a group of musketeers at the entrance to the narrow cleft in the rocks and an unenthusiastic Louis led the way in on foot.

Indeed, thanks to a bit of swift footwork as they set off, he had placed himself ahead of both his own personal groom and several musketeers and was at long last happily separated from the annoyance of international diplomacy by the narrowness of the path. Immediately behind Louis was d’Artagnan, the young man who had won his commission so recently in the competition with the Red Guards.

“How are you enjoying life in the musketeers?” he asked, having to raise his voice above the roar of the water below.

D’Artagnan’s mouth flapped several times, in apparent shock at being the recipient of a simple conversational gambit, but he eventually managed to stammer out, “Very much, Your Majesty.” 

“Even the damp, miserable country hikes?” teased Louis, amused by the young soldier’s confusion.

“Er, yes, Sire? I mean… well. The view from the end of the route is supposed to be excellent.”

“It’s hardly the most exciting of duties though, I should imagine.”

“Excitement has a way of showing up, Your Majesty.”

It was almost as if the very words summoned the shower of pebbles that clattered onto the path around them from the rock face above. The musketeers immediately had weapons at the ready, searching the skyline for a bandit ambush. There was a moment’s silence before Louis heard Treville give the all-clear.

“Looks like it was just loosened by the rain,” said d’Artagnan.

Louis turned to continue leading the soggy band of tourists along their journey. “Your Majesty!” shouted several voices at once, just as he realised that the ground beneath his feet was also no longer stable. Indeed a lengthy section of the path ahead was giving way.

The next moments were a whirl of panic and the horrible sensation of falling, arrested suddenly by sharp pain in his hand and shoulder. Without any conscious volition that he could recall, one of his hands had grabbed a jagged rock, which fortunately appeared to be a solid part of the hillside rather than the traitorous loose spoil that was still clattering and splashing into the gorge below. The other hand had closed around the wrist of the young musketeer, d’Artagnan - who was now dangling perilously over the void.

His own winded body was still pressed against what remained of the path, but that hardly seemed like a particularly safe place now and the swaying weight in his hand was pulling him very slowly towards the edge, if he could even hold on that long.

“Keep still!” he called down.

“You have to let me go, Your Majesty,” shouted back d’Artagnan over the roar of the river below. “Or we’ll both fall.”

Ridiculous musketeers, thought Louis, still being punctilious about protocol even while trying to sacrifice themselves.

“Don’t be absurd! Captain Treville will rescue us both in no time.”

He didn’t look up to see whether the captain and the other musketeers were making quick progress in reaching them along the broken path, but he could hear them shouting and dislodging even more rocks and boulders in their attempts. Trying to shuffle away from the ledge, while hauling d’Artagnan’s full body weight upwards was likely to be far beyond his strength and he didn’t want to risk what tenuous grip he had on the young man’s wrist. However, with a little effort he was able to kick off a shoe and hook his stockinged foot around another stable bit of rock, at least arresting his creeping journey towards the ledge.

“Good God, it’s a miracle you didn’t go over, Your Majesty.” That was Treville’s voice, reassuringly close now.

“Sir, please tell His Majesty he has to let me go. I don’t want to die killing the king of France!”

“Treville, tell Monsieur d’Artagnan to shut up and stop wriggling.”

Unfortunately, that was the moment when even more of the hillside above them collapsed, showering them both with dirt and pebbles. A few larger rocks bounced by.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, your safety must come before the life of any musketeer,” said Treville. Louis could hear the pain it cost the man to say that. D’Artagnan might be willing to make the noble sacrifice and die a hero, but he knew that Treville would find it much harder to live with having had to ask one man to drop another whom he probably loved almost as a son. He had seen the way d’Artagnan reacted to his captain’s injury at the tournament and the pride in Treville’s eyes when Louis called on the youth to kneel.

“I won’t let go,” said Louis. Annoyingly, it came out sounding petulant rather than commanding. Not to mention the fact that if the strain on his joints got any worse, holding on was soon going to become impossible anyway.

“How’s he even holding him up? He doesn’t look like he...” The muttered aside came from one of the other musketeers, who probably hadn’t intended the king to hear the slight to the strength of his arms. With his face still pressed against the dirt, Louis couldn’t see who had actually spoken.

“The boy’s very light and being king involves an awful lot of waving,” snapped Louis. “Now could someone get a damn rope around me or something?”

Seconds later he was being dragged back from the edge and then the agonising tension in his arm suddenly decreased as someone else was sharing its burden.

“It’s alright. You can let go now,” said Treville. “We have you both. You’re safe.”

Indeed he could see d’Artagnan now, sitting beside him on the remains of the path with his back against the rock, taking great gulps of air. As Louis prised his cramped fingers away from the young musketeer’s bruised wrist he wasn’t certain which of them he could feel trembling. Himself probably - surely musketeers didn’t tremble.


	5. Put up again thy sword

Louis lay wide awake in the stuffy tent. His arm and hand throbbed just enough to keep sleep at bay, in spite of the smelly salve one of the musketeers had dug out of his pack to help with the strain and bruising. Usually a day’s riding and excitement was enough to send him straight to slumber once he retired on a trip like this, but tonight he was frustratingly aware of the soldiers keeping watch over the camp.

Finally he gave up on sleep and, after wrapping a soft woollen blanket around himself, stepped back out of the tent.

“Is something the matter, Your Majesty? Are you still in pain?” asked the musketeer standing right outside. By the light of the distant campfire Louis could make out the features of Treville’s right-hand man, Athos.

“Just seeking some fresh air,” he said. “Walk with me.”

Athos made something between a nod and a bow and fell in one step behind as Louis walked towards the fire.

“With me, if you please, not behind. I wish for company, not security.”

“Would you like me to wake the captain, sire?”

“No, no, let the man sleep. I’m certain you’re capable of a little civilised conversation.”

“Your Majesty.” 

Louis could see he was going to have to work at getting a conversation of any kind going with this taciturn man. But there was something he longed to know.

“Tell me Athos. Do you think your king would make a good musketeer?”

“Your Majesty does not lack the courage for it. We saw that today.”

“Yes, yes,” said Louis, trying not to let on quite how much the comment pleased him. “But of course there is more to it that that. If I came to the regiment as a raw recruit, would I be accepted?”

Athos paused and Louis was thrilled at the idea that the man was giving the matter serious thought. 

“Very well, there are several skills we should consider. I have often seen Your Majesty ride, and you have an excellent seat and extraordinary control, just as I would expect of Pluvinel’s star pupil.”

Louis smiled at the recollection of his riding instructor, whose famous gentle approach to horses had been matched by a strict and demanding, but never cruel, attitude to young riders, whatever their rank. “You are an admirer of his techniques then?”

“I never had the privilege of seeing him ride, but the success of his methods is evident in his former pupils.”

Was that meant as flattery or sincere praise, wondered Louis. Antoine de Pluvinel’s lasting impact on a generation of riders was hardly a controversial opinion amongst aristocratic cavalrymen throughout France, though it marked this musketeer as unusually well-informed.

“As for swordplay, you fence well enough…” 

So much for flattery! That was practically an insult. “But not excellently? I’ll have you know I have been taught by - and beaten - some of the finest in the land.”

“Not one of whom would dare to test the full range of their own skill against you for fear of causing injury,” said Athos. “I am sorry, Sire, but however good your theoretical knowledge of the art, your position has wholly forbidden you the opportunity to practice in earnest. And fencing for sport is not at all the same thing as fighting for your life, which God forbid you should ever have to do.”

“I’m a good shot,” said Louis, sulkily. “Against targets, which I suppose is also worthless.”

“I shall keep you in mind should we need a sniper, if Aramis is indisposed,” returned Athos. “But actually, most of the raw recruits are a terrifying menace with the guns in a melee situation. Being able to line up a shot in the midst of chaos only comes with experience, so that would be no bar to your joining up.”

“But all in all, I should stick to being king?”

“France and her people prosper under your reign. But I think you might make it into the regiment, with a bit of hard work.”

For a moment Louis felt wrong-footed by the man’s bluntness, but then he recognised it as the kind of teasing no-one but his wife ever dared attempt with him and he laughed out loud. If he wanted to fantasise about being one of the boys with the musketeers, this too must be a part of it. No doubt there was much joking and friendly mockery between them.

“Do you think Treville will forgive me for today?” he asked, no longer able to hold back the gnawing worry.

“Forgive you, Sire? For what?”

“For not making the harder choice for the good of France and dropping d’Artagnan,” said Louis. “Back at the gorge, I actually thought he might arrest me for high treason, recklessly endangering the person of the king… The way he glared at me…”

“What, that? That was his famous ‘oh you ridiculous boys, I’ve never been more proud to be your captain’ glare. There’s musketeers who have tried for years to earn that one Your Majesty.”

“Truly?” asked Louis. He couldn’t bear for this to be teasing as well.

“Truly.” Athos sounded completely sincere and a little surprised. “You really do care what he thinks of you, Sire?”

Louis nodded. There were so few people whose good opinion mattered to him. Richelieu, of course, though he suspected he would never quite have the brains to earn that. And Anne - it would be pleasant to really, truly gain her regard. But Treville had offered his loyalty freely and sincerely from the first and it would be something to know that he had never regretted that or wished he could honourably take it back.

He didn’t think he could, or should, explain that to a common soldier, but there was something the man might understand.

“When I was nine years old, after my father had died and before I was crowned, Treville was on guard duty in the palace and he… it was a breach of all the rules and… he was the only one who…” Louis broke off. He’d never told anyone about this, just as he suspected Treville had kept his promise of secrecy from that day on.

“Your Majesty?” prompted Athos.

“He was the only one who even noticed Louis the little boy, rather than the king. He offered me this awful ragged scarf to wipe my eyes on. I’ve never forgotten that. But I fear he only sees the king now, not the man. No one ever sees the man. But then, sometimes I don’t think there’s much of a man left to see. Walk me back to my tent Athos, I think I’m tired enough to sleep now.”


	6. That a man be found faithful

“There, that’s the last of the warrants signed and sealed,” said Louis, dropping the heavy seal back into its case. Even in the warm glow of the candlelight he looked grey and weary. “I take it the executions will be at dawn tomorrow? Let us be done with these dreadful traitors.”

“I will see to it,” said Richelieu, sweeping from the room, the door slamming in his wake.

Treville gathered up his own portion of the documents that were spread across the large table into a neat pile and moved to stand, wincing as he discovered that his back had stiffened at some point during the long tense hours of unfolding the complex details of the treacherous plot. The plotters included several former allies of Marie de Medici and they had thus long been the object of suspicion, but that also meant several of them had been family friends in Louis’s boyhood, so it hardly took the sting out of their betrayal.

It could hardly have come at a worse time either. The king was already bowed by sorrow at the loss of his heir and by worry for his queen. Anne had gone to recover her health in the countryside, and but for the fact that it was too risky to leave when the court was rife with plotting, Treville felt that Louis too was in sore in need of some time away from the city, some privacy to mourn for what might have been.

“Must you go also, Treville?” asked Louis. “Won’t you stay for a glass of this brandy the new distillery in Cognac has sent?”

In all honesty, he wanted to call it a night and head back to the garrison to check on Porthos, who had been injured in obtaining some of the evidence that had just condemned the plotters to death. But there were few people Louis could ask to keep him company when he wasn’t feeling at his best. People expected the king to be charming and witty, even now.

“Just the one glass, Your Majesty.”

The footman who had been an unobtrusive silent shadow in the corner stepped forward to pour for both of them.

“Have you truly never been tempted to betray me, Treville?” asked Louis. “Surely any plotters who could win you over would be unstoppable.”

“And what could they offer me, that a life in Your Majesty’s service does not?” asked Treville.

“Lots and lots of money, I’d imagine. A grand house in the country. A life of peace.”

“Sounds awful,” said Treville, and meant it. “So long as you keep me in hats, cloaks and swords, that’s all a royal guardsman really needs.”

“And handkerchiefs, sometimes.”

Treville stared at Louis. It must have been more than 20 years since that day when he had had no handkerchief to offer. Had the king really held that moment in his heart all this time?

“Ah well, that’s the truth of it really I suppose,” he said. “To betray you would be to break a promise to the bravest child I ever met. I couldn’t do that.”

“The bravest? I remember being heartbroken and terrified.” 

“As any boy would have been in the circumstances. You knew the reality of what it meant to be king, even at that age. You saw your duty - and you squared yourself up to face it. I knew right then that you would be worth protecting.”

“And now?”

“Now you’re fishing for compliments, Sire.” Louis laughed, and just for a moment looked less tired. “But you serve France well and I’m proud every day to serve you.”

“France gives us little respite,” said Louis, slumping in his chair and indicating the papers with a waft of his hand. “Oh Treville, what do your musketeers do to forget their troubles?”

“For the most part, they get roaring drunk in the cheapest tavern.”

“I don’t suppose…” 

No, never, not in a million years, no. He would not escort the king of France into the middle of a bar brawl. 

Louis snorted. “God, your face Treville. Don’t worry, I know it isn’t possible.”

It was rare enough that he got to spend an evening at any kind of tavern himself, except for when the musketeers more or less brought the tavern to him by holding one of their notorious rowdy parties in the courtyard of the garrison.

And maybe the fine brandy from Cognac had gone to his head, but he thought he had an idea...

**

“Wherever are you taking me, Treville?” asked Louis as they strode through the empty corridors. It had been another long day, dealing with the after effects of the discovery of the plot. Between them, they had spent hours placating and reassuring distant relatives of the plotters who now feared for their own lives, working out which of the conspirators’ widows could be safely remarried and which would have to be exiled or encouraged to retire into a convent. “I understood this wing of the palace was about to be redecorated.” 

“Indeed it is your majesty, otherwise I doubt Monsieur Lavoie would have been willing to allow us such liberties.”

“Liberties? What have you been up… Oh!” 

The off-duty musketeers had done him proud with their creativity during the afternoon, once they had stopped arguing over what to call their one-night-only tavern inside the palace. If Athos was ever to retire from the regiment and take up innkeeping, Treville thought he would have a mind to invest, if this was what he could put together in less than a day - so long as the man could be dissuaded from drinking the profits. Of course, the once in a lifetime opportunity to plunder the royal cellars with full permission from the household had been a great incentive.

They had set up inside a once-grand room, the walls currently stripped in readiness for new plasterwork. This gave it enough of a rough and ready look to set the scene, at least for anyone who didn’t usually frequent low taverns. Above the wooden double doors, hung a jaunty sign reading ‘The Jolly Musketeer’. The strains of fiddle music and rowdy cheers drifted out through the open doors.

The sound stopped as soon as they entered, of course. The musketeer “customers” all leapt to their feet and bowed - even Porthos, who immediately grimaced and leant heavily on Aramis, who stood beside him. It was good to see him up and about already though, the man wouldn’t have wanted to miss this for the world.

“Please carry on,” said Louis to the room at large, clapping his hands in delight. “This is remarkable!”

A perfectly-located table and chairs had been left vacant in readiness for their arrival, and as they sat down d’Artagnan sidled up wearing an apron over his uniform. They hadn’t been able to persuade, or even bribe, him into dressing up as a buxom serving wench for the occasion, though not, from what Treville had heard, for lack of trying. “Sire, Sir, what can I get for you this evening?”

“A bottle of the house’s finest red wine,” ordered Louis. “And a bottle for every other table!”

A loud cheer went up around the room, even though they were all already drinking palace wine - albeit from the servants’ end of the cellar.

A couple of slowly-sipped glasses later, and Treville thought everything was going well. The strict “no cheating the king at cards” and “no bets involving firearms” rules had been followed to the letter and the warning against getting drunk on free wine and waking up unable to remember whether you had committed a capital crime _in front of the king_ had frightened everyone just enough that they were all pacing themselves a lot more than usual.

“Do you think we could keep it?” asked Louis, flopping back into his seat after having wandered off to watch an arm-wrestling contest. “We don’t _have_ to renovate the plasterwork, there’s more than enough fruit and ribbons on the walls everywhere else. It would be the only palace in Europe with its own tavern. I bet everyone would want one. No, I suppose not. It wouldn’t do. Not at all proper and grand. God, it can be _boring_ being king. This wine is good, I thought you said Lavoie only let you have the cheapest stuff we own. Maybe it just tastes better in a tavern, like food tastes better after a hunt...”

Louis seemed to be holding the entire conversation by himself, so Treville sat back in his chair and contemplated the room with wine-warmed affection.

Half of the men in Paris would probably desire to swap places with the king if given the choice. It was after all, a pleasant, cosseted life most of the time, with fine food, a beautiful wife, expensive things, the best servants and power over the whole country. The other half, thought Treville, would balk immediately at the thought of never truly being free to spend a night at a real tavern with bad wine and good company.

And that was without even considering all the other trying aspects of the role - the long hours of entertaining awful foreigners, vicious enemies plotting your death, living out the most private of griefs in the public gaze.

Yet here was Louis after a long day of trying to keep a fractious kingdom at peace, thrilled to be allowed this small, pretend effort at normality - excited to be drinking the cheapest wine he owned and, right now, joining in with singing the least obscene songs the musketeers knew. 

His King. Treville didn’t regret the decision made by his younger self for a moment.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to ponygirl for beta reading this story. Any remaining errors are all my own.


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